Eclipse
by The Illegible
Summary: In the wake of Lahabrea's failed bid at the Praetorium, he is held to account by Elidibus. Nabriales savors this.


Nabriales cannot sense aether to the degree that his Unsundered brethren can. It is but one of the many ways he falls short.

He tried to convince himself, for a time, that he'd been happy before his reminder. Before being raised back to the grace of Lord Zodiark. Being made aware of all that was missing.

A phantom pain he hadn't been conscious of previously. The realization in hindsight not only that something was lost but the shape it should have held. Senses stolen. A limb severed.

The heart that has yet to beat again.

He aches every day to feel, to move the pieces of him that are absent. And in their absence his early memories have grown hollow and bitter.

A fool's life.

He cannot see or speak to sundered beings like they matter. Like they share anything in kind. They are only what he once was, what he has learned to despise.

No, he cannot sense aether as the Unsundered can.

But Nabriales knows to pay attention, to snap at opportunity like the dog they consider him. To hunt, to be silent, and to strike.

* * *

When Lahabrea falls into their shelter on the shores of the Lifestream, Nabriales hears him. Starless skies and gray, barren earth. A horizon that seems to stretch in all directions.

He goes. He offers no aid and keeps his presence hidden.

Emet-Selch may yet sleep, oblivious. As is his wont. Still, if one such as _he_ heard then it is only a matter of time before the Emissary arrives.

And oh, how Lahabrea suffers while he waits. It is clear to see the places light has shorn holes through his aether. Were he any weaker it would not matter that he remains unbroken—he'd have shattered just the same. Ascians may cast no shadows but my, do they bleed from the Speaker now.

Lahabrea does not stir to raise himself. From the way his essence flickers on occasion—fast and frantic and straining beyond itself—Nabriales presumes he fades into awareness at points. Then it subsides, and the darkness slips a little farther, and the wounds gape for its absence.

An ordeal in scant more than a few minutes, but then time does stretch for those in misery.

* * *

They tried, in the beginning, to explain. The three who'd escaped Hydaelyn unscathed. Amaurot the beautiful, Amaurot the dead. Their failed, fallen city. What must come to breathe again at any cost.

Privately, Nabriales could not give a damn. How should he? These were empty words and abstract notions. Zodiark, on the other hand, showed sympathy for how his own soul had been butchered. Revealed the glory he had been, once, and should become again. The disfigurement of the world itself.

_Zodiark_ wanted to help them. _Zodiark_ wanted to raise them in glory.

The Unsundered wanted lackeys.

This had been clear from the start, in the division between their ranks. Elite Ascians would lean on one another, confide in one another. Shield weaknesses and mistakes from sight. To those below they delivered orders and listened patiently without so much as an onze of trust. Igeyorhm, certain now that her own misstep was caused by a fractured soul, guaranteed as much.

For each of his own successes, Nabriales burns with the knowledge that his natural form would be many times as great. That he has been dulled and diminished. The irreverence he receives is nothing he can correct in this iteration.

And so he obeys not for them, but the one true god.

* * *

Elidibus steps from a plume like tar, the white of his robes an insult to their surroundings.

His attention is on Lahabrea and Lahabrea only. Whether this oversight is due to distraction or Nabriales' skill is impossible to say. Good fortune, regardless.

Elidibus wastes no words, races to his fallen colleague and kneels. Hesitates, gloved hands hovering. Seemingly concerned that moving the man might exacerbate his injuries.

He makes contact. Begins his own rare and complex process of healing.

Slowly, agonizingly, what shadows had pooled like ichor around Lahabrea begin to retract. To patch what had been pierced, little by little.

Eventually a gasp, torn and ugly, interrupts the silence.

One black glove, slick with himself, clutches at Elidibus' forearm.

Frail. Pathetic. Unworthy. Nabriales finds his lips curling in disgust as Lahabrea struggles to find his breath on the ground.

Like a mortal.

"How did this happen?" demands Elidibus, unwavering in ministrations though his voice remains flat and hard.

Lahabrea coughs. Lifts his head. "Hydaelyn," he rasps. Then, "Weak, in… inexcusable. My doing."

_Ah, so he's aware after all._

But Elidibus catches Lahabrea's jaw sharply, draws his gaze up. "He," says the Emissary, "would not have you regard yourself thus. Only learn."

The Speaker's grip is tight. Despite distance, Nabriales notes his trembling reaches Elidibus' shoulder.

"Whose fault," says Lahabrea, a raw edge to his words, "would this be if not… if not my own? It should have worked, I had… I had…"

A sigh as Elidibus leans his brow gently, carefully, against the wounded man's.

Lingers there.

For a time, neither of them says anything. Nabriales finds himself stunned by both the gesture and an innate understanding that it remains beyond what he will ever receive.

"We are _all of us_," says Elidibus in a tone that brooks no argument, "instruments of Zodiark. You know better than most what His strength entails."

Slowly, Lahabrea's grip begins to loosen.

"The Ardor," Elidibus continues more quietly, "is not yours alone. Be at peace."

Another moment passes. After a brief fumble, Lahabrea's hand slides free. What tension remains to signify consciousness soon follows.

It is with great care then that the Emissary shifts him onto his back. Gathers his colleague in arms and stands. Exits through a corridor once more.

Following some moments spent with his own silent reflection, Nabriales departs as well.

* * *

All the world knows when Allag's eikons start to wake.

Scarce days from his retrieval, Lahabrea summons the Sundered in prayer and praise to Zodiark.

All of them present save Emet-Selch and Elidibus. It is a show, Nabriales understands now, meant to impress the little puppets who aspire to be like him. To soothe his own ego. Something his _friends_ would catch in an instant.

But he does love Zodiark, and perhaps the god has seen fit to reward his observance with further insight.

So Nabriales attends to play his role with solemn grace and watchful eye.

Half-mended aether. Absent smile despite the news. Slow, careful movements in this dark chamber with its stone floors and unadorned columns.

No, Lahabrea has not forgotten at all.

* * *

It ends at Elidibus' untimely arrival.

"Lord Zodiark," he says, so smoothly that were he not searching for it that the anger would be undetectable, "appreciates your attentions." His gaze does not waver from Lahabrea as he speaks. "But there is work to be done and I'm afraid there are words I would have with your Speaker."

They disperse.

Nabriales, careful and curious, folds himself out of sight beyond the chamber then makes his way back to its edge.

Lahabrea, farthest from the exit, attempts to steal some small dignity. Turns to face Elidibus.

The Emissary makes him wait. Expressionless red masks matched by those who wear them.

Then, with more speed and force than typical for his demeanor, the Emissary closes distance to trap his colleague against the wall.

"It was my error," hisses Elidibus, leaning in, "to have stayed silent upon rescuing you. A mistake I will remedy now, so we can be on no uncertain terms."

Lahabrea lowers his eyes. Nabriales notes that despite the dread they all share of such reprimands, the man does not brace.

"You know as well as I that these words offer less succor to our Lord than action," continues Elidibus, his fury quiet and no less sharp for that, "just as we both know your _thoughtless_ action is the cause of repeated missteps these past centuries. Make no mistake—for all the strides you've made, your fixation and your impatience have cost the rest of us considerable time."

Silence.

"Do you truly think this is your best service to Him?" asks Elidibus. "To us? Compromising your ability to fill the hours? Even Emet-Selch agrees these displays are disgraceful. You have ever borne them poorly, but being a 'paragon among paragons' naturally you continue ignoring your own better judgment with ours to continue this exercise in futility. _Idiot_."

A twitch of the head. Almost a flinch.

It is one of few moments Nabriales has seen the Emissary express his anger so openly. Even after the Thirteenth fell to Igeyorhm's error, Elidibus allowed the Angel of Truth to lead and voiced his own reproach with a more typical icy demeanor. Scathing though it was.

"I can be of use," says Lahabrea softly. "Only three of us remain, and I—"

"You," Elidibus snaps, "cannot follow the most simple instructions for the good of us all. Not for Him, not for Amaurot, not even for yourself. Your pride has made you not simply an embarrassment but a liability."

Neither man speaks for several moments after that.

And then, at length, Elidibus exhales.

Says the Speaker's name.

Receives his attention.

"What would you have me do?" the Emissary asks. His tone now is almost weary. "Clearly it would be unreasonable to trust you'd simply listen. Must I mind you like a child?"

This is what breaks Lahabrea's composure.

Knowing the man's temper, Nabriales had expected him to lash out. Even on the back foot their orator is perfectly capable of defending himself from insults.

Instead, he embraces Elidibus fiercely—face just within the bounds of his pauldrons. Jaw locked shut firmly enough to hurt. Expression downcast.

Elidibus remains perfectly still at first. In the absence of conversation it is possible to hear the rush of Lahabrea's breathing. Only through the nose, withheld briefly between each inhale as if that offers some means to steady himself.

As if that would make it better.

Tentatively, Elidibus holds him back. Lahabrea's fingers contract, and though he remains upright when his knees begin to give it is the Emissary who helps him kneel.

"Easy," he murmurs, and Lahabrea removes one hand to run it reflexively over his face—coming against the mask.

Nabriales finds himself staring, searching. A puzzle with missing pieces whose image he may yet divine

"It was not," says Lahabrea thickly, "my intention to…"

Elidibus reaches beneath the other man's cowl, finds the hair and skin beneath. Draws him in once more.

Naught that would be shared with or among the Sundered. Nothing so personal as that.

Nabriales has worn his own share of flesh. Bedded lovers, adopted companions and families of vessels to fulfill a purpose. Passable enough, perhaps, but never for him. Not in truth.

It's as if he looks upon two strangers.

* * *

Afterward and alone, Nabriales offers his own prayer.

It is neither a request, nor a demand, nor an offering.

Only a promise.

Before His likeness, again and again through clenched teeth, he swears he will prove himself the worthier servant. Nabriales will not remain broken forever.

Despite his shattered form, the blurring and burning of his vision under a mask inherited rather than earned, Nabriales tells himself that indifference is a strength. To halt time, to summon the heavens themselves—before all this, he might have set this world right alone. Instead, crippled as She left him, he can only watch as his brothers-in-arms sabotage them all through sentiment.

Fragile, desperate creatures that they are.

How useless. Useless to Zodiark and to their situation and even so he…

For _millenia_, they made him doubt.

* * *

It seems Lahabrea has acquiesced to Elidibus' demands. While he licks wounds dealt by Hydaelyn, the Speaker turns to the Sundered. Delegates.

Naturally, Nabriales volunteers for this position.

How better to begin than by succeeding where the unbroken could not?

Lahabrea is frustrated as he's ever seen him. Confined to a sickbed, bereft of stationary projects. The Emissary has effectively limited his activity to sleep and trivial amusements. This by itself might have been entertaining, but the man insists on dragging him into the same foul mood. Their briefing includes far more detail than could conceivably matter. Worse, Lahabrea questions him afterward to ensure no detail has been missed.

Insufferable.

They are both glad to be rid of each other in the end. Even so, this does not prevent Lahabrea from calling him as he prepares to leave.

_"What now?"_ says Nabriales, no longer bothering to mask his impatience.

Any amusement at seeing the Speaker stripped of regalia has faded. Though the mask remains in place, being ordered about by this sandy-haired wreck in bedclothes has lost its charm. He likes not the notion of being instructed by such a dull figure. The chamber itself, outfitted by Elidibus in stone combinations of brown, gray, and gold, proves far more ornate than its occupant.

Lahabrea's lips thin. When he continues, it is with a note of severity.

"See to it you don't engage Her champion. Nor any associated parties, for that matter. It can be tempting to underestimate them but…" he trails off a moment. Choosing his words. "…they are not unpracticed."

Nabriales smiles with his teeth. "Fear not for _me_, Lahabrea. I assure you that my track record is quite sound."

And thus he departs.

* * *

The tasks are straightforward in themselves. Instruct beastfolk to transcend the mortal coil. Observe Hydaelyn's chosen. Follow developments with the Isle of Val. Escalate primal summons as crystals permit.

Naught particularly taxing alone, his duties prove time consuming and numerous. Despite himself, Nabriales sees how one could become lost in the pile. _His_ greatest obstacle, however, is that the Scions appear to have eyes and ears in every imaginable place. And they do so delight in thwarting his efforts.

Like tying a boot only to have imps undo it again the moment you've stood upright. Amusing at first, but this quickly shifts to exasperation and finally to true annoyance.

Killing them would be the efficient path. Alas, he has orders. Evidently Elidibus has intentions for their number as well. Nabriales does not mean to make himself a target for the man's frustration, whatever other opinions he holds.

So for now, his performance is careful. Meticulous.

Obedient.

* * *

He wonders what a complete Warrior might have been.

He wonders if she would continue her course, knowing how she'd been cheated.

The Echo locks her mind shut.

Sadly, she will remain distant to him as any other.

* * *

In the wake of Ramuh and Leviathan, Elidibus calls them to the Chrysalis.

Once more, an Unsundered seeks lesser members of their order. Emet-Selch slumbers still. Lahabrea, over a month reprimanded, adheres to his recovery.

What intel they've gathered proves sound. The Warrior's strength has reached worrisome proportions, of that there can be no doubt. She gorges, swells with the gifts of her mistress. Elidibus, however, argues such power costs the enemy dear. Hydaelyn lacks sufficient aether for these feats. In each successful Calamity, the dominion of Zodiark waxes toward completion. Those sundered inhabitants (rife though they are with potential) remain exhausted and wanting by comparison.

The end, he tells them, is in sight. Perhaps this is even true.

Perhaps it is only what he needs to hear.

And this is when Lahabrea can bear it no longer.

He takes his place, late but listening. His expression proves empty of typical bravado.

Though he proclaims to the room that this mission is why efforts must be ceaseless, his eyes remain fixed on the Emissary.  
Elidibus, unimpressed, waits.

"Divine seeds were ever wont to quicken in Eorzea's fertile soil," the Speaker continues more quietly. "We need only lead men to the field, and by their eager hands shall a new deity arise."

Although not quite an apology or an excuse, his justification nonetheless carries earmarks of both.

Duly shamed.

Whether Elidibus is moved by faith or pity is impossible to tell.

He is permitted to stay.

* * *

Though Lahabrea's limitations have been reduced, he does remain barred from field. Both he and Nabriales were present for that conversation.

Throughout, the Speaker's gaze remained fixed on the floor. Fingers flexing lightly. Reminding himself not to form a fist.

It was almost amusing. Might have been, once, had he not known Elidibus' motive.

Nabriales continues in his function of errand boy either way.

* * *

Conflict escalates between the Warrior and Ysayle Dangoulin. The elezen who calls herself "Iceheart".

Another of Hydaelyn's disciples. Another possessed of Echo and Blessing both… though she lacks knowledge or inclination to fight Ascians.

Convenient.

Nabriales has, under the curt orders of Lahabrea, been urging her toward a unique aetherial experiment. Take advantage of the very qualities that allow her freedom from primals and shape her soul into one. Sacrifice to herself.

Ysayle, it seems, is not the issue. As tensions between her and Eorzea's champion reach a head she plays her part to perfection. Survives, even. And (as Lahabrea hoped) she is not consumed in her own ritual but simply reverts at its close.

Admittedly, they are stunning together. Hardly the worst subjects to observe. Each tall and fair haired as per his preference. One, moonlight pale. The other hued in gold. Ysayle sheds her common beauty for a more revealing figure. Ice twisting through locks, long limbs summoning attacks with poise. It is as though she drifts through water—gravity has no hold on the Lady Shiva. And his Warrior, skirts and pages rippling in the wind, steps lightly to dodge the assault. Recites spells in a delicate tongue, gestures with slender fingers to hurl her own ruin beside those she commands. A dance for him to pay audience, curving and cold.

All told, a successful venture.

How much more rewarding if he did not need to report back.

* * *

Returned to an office he rarely has occasion to use, Lahabrea paces.

Idleness suits him not. Though the man's aether approaches what it was before his misstep, it pales beside their colleagues. The torchlit interior is littered with reports and tomes. His own notes form a growing stack on the desk. If Pashtarot is to be believed, lack of hazard has only made him more insufferable.

Lahabrea cannot seem to keep still, cannot stick to a single project. Dabbles in how to heighten efficiency for their whole organization. Frets constantly.

His movements are quicker than they were. Jerky.

"The Scions are plotting something," he mutters.

Nabriales, forced to endure such nervous energy without leave to attend his own affairs, scoffs. "Of course," he replies. "We are none of us blind to the situation. They recognize our plans and form countermeasures."

Lahabrea glances his way. "Does none of this trouble you?" he asks. "They have not even employed a fraction of their strength and resources. Our movements are duly noted. You might have been more discreet."

Nabriales glares. "Do not," he says, "presume to comment on my performance. _Speaker_."

His tone, it seems, goes overlooked. Lahabrea only waves a hand dismissively, passing again across the room. "No, they know us better than we gave credit… might you monitor their current agendas more closely?"

This time, Nabriales snorts. Folds his arms. "With or without deference to improved subtlety?"

Lahabrea turns to him.

Pauses.

"…if it comes to a question," he says slowly, "keep out of sight. Once your presence is revealed, it cannot be masked again with ease."

This earns a laugh, hard and shameless. "Strange, such sentiments seem more aligned with our Emissary. Does this new, cowardly Lahabrea worry on _my_ account or for himself?"

The Speaker stares, mouth just parted.

"Oh, don't look surprised," Nabriales adds with a shrug. "Surely after so long you know we all dislike you. You've ever placed higher value on feeling busy than contributing anything of worth. That it is only after losing you exercise care is absurd."

"Nabriales," says Lahabrea, his voice low.

A shake of the head. "Don't bother," he says. "You have never recognized me as worthy of the office. I am… a placeholder. But what does it say for you that one of my stature might seize the victory you spurn?"

This time, it is almost foreign. Mortal and filthy and yet another reminder of what he has never been.

Nabriales seizes the front of Lahabrea's robes. Drags him close. _"Do not,"_ he says quietly, tasting ozone as electricity burns across his teeth, "say that name in front of me again."

* * *

Lahabrea lets him go. He doesn't fight back, doesn't argue.

Disappointing.

* * *

"Nabriales is no more."

_Fear not for me, Lahabrea. I assure you that my track record is quite sound._

"…The Ardor was not his to invoke. His demise was of his own making."

_Perhaps they all have things they need to hear._

"Nevertheless, it concerns me. They have…"

_You have never recognized me as worthy of the office._

"…extinguished that which should rightly be eternal."

_Surely after so long you know we all dislike you._

"Mayhap he was not wholly mistaken. Greater haste may be warranted."

_Make no mistake—for all the strides you've made, your fixation and your impatience have cost the rest of us considerable time._

"We are of one mind."

_Does this new, cowardly Lahabrea worry on my account or for himself?_

"…The northern lands, then?"

_Your pride has made you not simply an embarrassment but a liability._

"The earth is fertile, and the seeds well sown. By my will they shall reap salvation unlike any the world has known."

_Only learn._

"By _His_ will."

_We are all of us instruments of Zodiark._

"…By His will."


End file.
